


Fortunate

by venhediss



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, a little drowning, and lots of doctoring, not quite shipping yet but we'll get there folks, some violence i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-20 00:58:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12421713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venhediss/pseuds/venhediss
Summary: Volfred Sandalwood pulled himself, retching, out of the waters that had forced him down, down to the Downside. He was alive for now - his throat burned almost as much as the fresh brand on his head, he ached all over, and his body felt heavy and tight, as if it was bound with iron bands. But he had survived the fall.How long he might live to call the Downside home remained to be seen.





	Fortunate

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to TobuIshi, without whom this fic would be a mess and also 1300 words shorter. <3

Volfred Sandalwood pulled himself, retching, out of the waters that had forced him down, down to the Downside. He was alive for now - his throat burned almost as much as the fresh brand on his head, he ached all over, and his body felt heavy and tight, as if it was bound with iron bands. But he had survived the fall.

How long he might live to call the Downside home remained to be seen.

The sands here were hot, almost acrid despite their proximity to the water. He continued coughing into them until his lungs were raw with the effort of forcing the water out.  _ Not enough _ , he reflected, lightheaded.  _ At this rate I'll rot from the inside out. _ But he found there was little else he could do about it, as the last of the strength drained from his limbs and he crumpled awkwardly to the ground, managing to at least land on his side rather than his face.

The sands stretched out as far as he could see, a burning, featureless yellow-orange. Nothing stirred. No oases offered shelter.  _ I have to get up, _ he thought, but he simply could not. His roots lay limp, without even the energy to seek purchase in the shifting earth. His clothes had twisted around him like a shroud. The sand clung and the unnatural heat buzzed like termites in his head, and--  _ Scribes, his head _ . He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. He couldn't think. He couldn't move. He burned and he ached and he knew there was nothing to be done but pray for the cool numbness of sleep. Distantly, through the encroaching fog of fever, he also knew that he might not wake up.

**************

 

Steep, jagged cliffs marked the path of the River Sclorian as it plunged into the Downside's southernmost reaches. Heaped at the base of those cliffs was a pile of twisted metal, the remains of the cages that carried exiles, more or less in one piece, down to the place where they would spend the remainder of their days. Those new arrivals with life yet in their bodies would crawl from the murky, rust-colored pool at the foot of the falls, only for many of them to expire not long afterwards, half-sunk into the silty shore. Unconcerned with this cycle of suffering and death, the Sclorian slithered on along its tainted path eastward into the Sandfolds.

Oralech had no particular desire to go near such cursed and blasted lands; few exiles did. And yet, the Nightwings found themselves short a Reader. The Lone Minstrel had, in his usual unassuming manner, suggested that this time between cycles of the Rites might be ideal for replenishing their ranks, as they now barely had the requisite numbers to form a full triumvirate.

So it was that they had in recent weeks tracked steadily southward, stopping to chase after rumors at every cluster of huts, every filthy public house or roaming caravan. Finding an exile with the appropriate skills and motivations for conducting the Rites was one thing; finding a Reader was another entirely. When their search came up empty-handed save for whispers of a recent high-profile arrest, there was little left to do but revisit that forsaken place where they had all first come to consciousness in their lives as exiles.

They touched down around midday. Erisa was in a black mood, her gaze like iron as she followed Oralech's preparations from the common room. He would, apparently, be scouting on his own. That suited him fine; he was more than capable of providing mercy for the suffering, comfort for the dying, and words of prayer for those who had already passed.

The blackwagon rocked a bit under his step as he climbed down, cape wrapped around his shoulders and a large medical pack slung over his shoulder. He met the gaze of the Lone Minstrel, who had been waiting just outside as if summoned there. "You will stay and keep watch?" A silent nod. Oralech lowered his voice to a murmur. "Mind Erisa too, if you will."

Tariq didn't stir this time, but Oralech felt that his words had been acknowledged nonetheless.

"I will signal you if I require your aid. I should return before dusk." He flicked his cape over his head to provide some small shelter from the blistering intensity of the desert sun, and he was off, striding out towards the line of cliffs shimmering in the heat haze.

Some half-hour’s travel brought him close enough to the falls that he could hear them thundering down from above. From here, he would be able to make out shapes along the water's edge, if indeed there were any. He pulled his hood down farther over his eyes and squinted into the light. The shore appeared empty, not too surprisingly; bones wouldn't be visible from this distance, nor was there much he could do for them that would require him to make haste. He scanned from west to east: nothing; nothing; there was the outflow of the river; and there-

A low, dark shape. Perhaps a body. An instinctive sense of urgency quickened Oralech's step. The chances that this exile still lived were slim, but the passage of even a few more minutes could be the line between them surviving, and being picked clean by howlers. As he drew closer, he began to make out more details - a sap, damn it all. He had far less experience with their physiology, since they rarely served on the Bloodborder.

He was jogging now, one hand already digging through his pack to find a piece of beaten metal polished to a high sheen. He slowed, dropped to his knees in the sand beside the fallen exile. He appeared to be unconscious at best, but--

Oralech held the mirror a few centimeters from the sap's face and watched, and waited. He felt the anxious tension behind his sternum loosen a bit as he saw fog collecting on the metal surface. Still alive, then, for now, but judging by how much moisture was on his breath, he was in a bad state. A cursory examination revealed a number of abrasions that would need trimming, places where his water-softened bark had been pinched or crushed and would shortly begin to swell and mold if left untreated. His head was already bandaged, albeit poorly. And his roots, what was visible of them, were a mess.

Oralech set his mirror aside and laid a gentle hand on the sap's shoulder. "Can you hear me?" A long moment passed; there was no response. He raised his voice. "I know you yet live. If you can hear me, come to me." He counted measured beats in his head; still no response.

Nothing left for it. Tilting the sap's chin out a bit, he felt around his neck for the minute notch where three different grains of bark converged, and dug his thumb into it. The reaction this time was immediate. Oralech pulled his hand back as the sap came to with a pained jerk, coughing reflexively. Still, although his eyes were open, his gaze was unfocused. He didn't move, or speak, but simply squinted into the light reflecting up off the sand.

"What's your name?" Oralech pressed, trying to keep the sap's tenuous consciousness engaged.

"...--prus," the sap answered hoarsely, before squeezing his eyes shut, opening them again, coughing once more to clear his throat. He sounded a bit more put-together when he spoke again, and found the strength to turn and make eye contact. "Sandalwood."

"Sandalwood. Do you know where you are, Sandalwood?"

"I'm...Downside," he managed, with some difficulty.

Oralech nodded gravely. "See, now, you are still with us after all. With any luck you shall stay here long enough to decide for yourself if that is a blessing or a curse." He got to his feet, extended a hand. "Try to sit up, if you are able. If it is too painful, or if you cannot move, do not force it."

It took a long moment, but the sap called Sandalwood eventually took the offered hand, and pulled himself slowly into a sitting position. He was breathing heavily from even the slight exertion, but he remained as alert as could be expected, which boded well for his chances of surviving. Still, he would likely need to be watched for a week, if not longer, and there was no sense in leaving him to struggle in the Sandfolds if they could just as easily drop him off near an exile settlement, give him a fighting chance in his new life. Then they could simply continue their search from there or, if worst came to worst, return to this place and look again.

The decision was a simple one. "I'm going to signal my companions. You should cover your ears." Oralech's tone, while gentle, had all the force of a command. As soon as he saw that Sandalwood had done as he asked, he put his fingers to his lips and let out a piercing, two-toned whistle.

No more than a few minutes had passed before the blackwagon came into view, approaching surprisingly quickly in a cloud of sand and dust. Oralech waved it down, and it adjusted course, finally coming to a swaying, shuddering stop a short distance away.

"It's time you tried standing," Oralech said, offering his hand yet again. “Take your time.” A moment passed, and then he was forced to brace himself as the sap's full weight threatened to pull him over. Yet, surprisingly, Sandalwood managed to stand, his battered roots snaking deep into the ground, seeking what little purchase they would find in the ever-shifting ground. He leaned heavily on Oralech's shoulder but, with that support as well as an arm wrapped around his trunk, he was able to hold fairly steady.

Tariq had stepped out of the wagon as soon as it stopped, and he stood waiting to offer what aid he could. Ti'zo perched on his shoulder, chittering quietly, his expression wary as he engaged the minstrel in what appeared to be a rather anxious one-sided conversation. He shifted about and watched as Oralech escorted his patient slowly, steadily towards the wagon.

Suddenly the weight leaning on his side shifted, sending Oralech staggering. The sap's strength had given out, or perhaps he had lapsed briefly back into unconsciousness. Despite his strength, Oralech found himself forced almost to his knees, stumbling to keep both himself and his charge upright. Tariq's voice rang out in surprise. "Ti'zo-!"

But the imp had already let out a startled screech of alarm at the perceived attack, and launched himself, fur puffed and fangs bared, at whatever part of the bedraggled newcomer he could most easily reach. That turned out to be his left arm, extended in an attempt to regain his balance; Oralech had no time to react before Ti'zo's teeth sank in. The imp's angry growl quickly turned to a squawk of confusion, as his fangs struck unexpectedly deep into the water-softened bark, and were stuck there.

Sandalwood looked on in blank, unfocused shock as Ti'zo struggled to free himself. And then, he simply fainted dead away.

**************

Time blurred together, making it hard for Volfred to anchor any clear memories of what followed. He would surface into painful, bright fragments of movement and speech, only to slip back into restless, fevered slumber.

He clung to what pieces he could: the name Oralech; an expression set permanently into a glower; the Feather-and-Tear insignia of the Bloodborder medics. And always the same hands, the hands that helped him out of his sodden clothes, noticed every injury, searching and prodding for anything more serious. They wrapped bandages, unwrapped bandages, rewrapped them again, but dry this time, smelling sweetly of fresh sawdust that gradually drew the excess water from his wounds. They pulled the soaked and dirty rag from the brand on his head, cleaned it without hesitation, and wrapped it with something softer, something that flashed with color.

A low, gentle voice murmured a warning, a consolation, and then a delicate blade slipped through the grain of his bark, trimming wounds before rot could set in. It hurt; oh, Scribes, did it hurt, but whatever was applied to his bandages eventually eased the pain into warm, drowsy numbness. Perhaps it was simply becoming harder to maintain even such limited focus. He struggled to hold onto fragments of thought, of sensation, as they floated by sluggishly in the half-darkness. But, in the end, all there was to do was lie still and wait for the heavy tide of exhaustion and sickness to finally recede.

**************

Exhaustion was too gentle a word for the fatigue that pressed Oralech down to the very marrow of his bones. He had returned to his patrol after stabilizing Sandalwood, finding the remains of three other exiles in various states of decay, and one exile, a young nomad quaking from fever and blood loss, who lived but was far beyond any help a mere physician could hope to give. He had offered what mercy he could, and by sundown all four of them been laid to rest. It was something he had become used to, but it never truly became easier.

He’d tended to his survivor practically nonstop since then, enlisting Erisa and Tariq’s aid with more menial tasks. His hands ached from whittling down part of their firewood supply into something suitable for binding a sap’s wounds; he had little reason to routinely carry such things with him, for just as saps were rarely seen on the Bloodborder, they were also seldom seen in exile. The Westerly Woods were often allowed to handle the punishment of their own. Those who stepped too harshly on the Commonwealth’s toes frequently did not last long without a massive stroke of good fortune.

Now, sitting down for the first time in hours, Oralech ran through their situation once again. Tariq was watching Sandalwood; Erisa, as much as she loathed it, was at the wagon’s helm. They were beginning to run low on clean bandages, and could not wash what they had until they reached a more verdant area. They had enough drinking water for now, as unpleasant as it tasted, and food was of no particular concern. While the status of their supplies was not dire at the moment, it would take two more long days of travel to reach the prairie, and the Sandfolds were never friendly. At night, Howlers pressed close to the wagon like it was a wounded animal, seemingly unbothered by Ti’zo’s warnings; the beasts had a keen nose for suffering of all types. It would perhaps be best to try coaxing a bit more speed out of the blackwagon’s flight centrifuge.

He would mention it to Tariq when he awoke. For now, it was late afternoon, they had a few hours of (hopefully peaceful) travel still before them, and he was determined to take a well-deserved rest. The nook he had tucked himself into, while not particularly comfortable, was quiet, and he was asleep in a matter of moments.

**************

When next Volfred awoke, he was surprised to find that he felt like himself again.  _ Like myself in a good deal of pain _ , he amended a moment later as a full-body ache swept through him, but the fact that he could even string together a thought was already an improvement on his previous condition.

The rest of his senses awoke more slowly; he was lying on his side with a pillow under his head, certainly a welcome change from hot sand. Wherever he was resting was quiet, save for his own somewhat raspy breaths. He smelled straw, wood shavings, smoke, and something else, musty and a little animalistic, that pervaded the whole space. A barn of some sort?

Finally he felt confident enough in his wakefulness to try cracking an eye open. The space that greeted him was dimly lit, mostly wood, and crowded with simple bunks (one of which he assumed he was occupying) and sacks of supplies. Not a barn then, but perhaps a barracks.

However, what really stood out was the pale individual seated not more than two paces away from the bedside, garbed all in white and more strongly resembling a statue than a living thing. The shadow cast by his large white hat obscured his features. It wasn’t clear at first whether he was merely asleep or profoundly unconscious, but as soon as Volfred looked at him, without opening his eyes, he shifted to attention.

“Ah, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” The odd figure spoke gently, his voice barely above a murmur.

“...Better,” Volfred managed. It wasn’t a lie, although he might have preferred just a bit more comfortable sleep to pained wakefulness.

“I had rather hoped that would be the case.”

The small, brightly-colored creature perched on the figure’s shoulder made a sleepy grumbling sound. It rustled its wings, puffed its fur out a bit, and cracked open an eye - then, at the sight of him, it sank back into itself with a low  _ hroom _ . Its companion turned a bit towards it, then back to Volfred. “I am the Lone Minstrel, sometimes called Tariq. This little one is called Ti’zo. He wishes to express his sincere apologies for attacking you earlier.”

Ti’zo did appear sincerely regretful. Unfortunately, Volfred was struggling to remember what precisely was being referred to. “Ah, yes…”

A series of chirps followed, which Tariq dutifully translated. “There are many dangers in the Downside, not least among them other exiles. Thus he is always anxious when Oralech patrols alone, and does what he can to help stand guard, for Oralech is a dear friend, and takes good care of this wagon’s imps.”

_ Ah, imps _ . Even without knowing anything in particular about the creatures, Volfred wrinkled his nose, realizing that the animal scent that filled the room was probably due to them. Perhaps it was simply one of the facts of life in this place. “I...see. Well, he can’t be faulted for wishing to protect his friends. And, to speak truly, I hardly recall what transpired.” He gave Ti’zo the closest thing to a smile that he could manage at the moment which, considering he was achy and still lying down, probably looked more like a grimace. It hardly mattered to the little imp though; he brightened up immediately with a happy squawk, then fluttered down from Tariq’s shoulder and shuffled through a slightly-open door into the darkened room beyond.

Tariq stood, seeming about to follow suit, but perhaps sensing Volfred’s confusion, he paused. “Pardon me. Oralech is resting now, but he wished me to inform him when you awoke so that he could check your condition for himself. Please do not try to get up; he will be here shortly.”

“Do you think, perhaps, you could ask him to bring some water with him?” By now, Volfred was uncomfortably aware of how parched he was. Better than rot, of course, but far from pleasant.

The minstrel didn’t respond verbally, but gave a slight tip of his hat before slipping wraithlike out of the room, shutting the door silently behind him.

Oralech really did arrive surprisingly quickly, knocking sharply at the door before stepping in and once again closing it behind him. He certainly looked as if he had just been roused from a not-too-restful slumber; there were dark circles under his eyes, his complexion was wan, and his shaggy brown hair could be generously described as “messy”. Then again, perhaps that was simply his usual appearance, for he seemed alert enough, and moved with understated purpose to the seat vacated by the minstrel. He was holding a tin cup of water, as requested, although he did not offer it just yet.

“Tariq told me you were feeling better?”

“After a fashion.”

Oralech chuckled shortly, a corner of his mouth quirking into a wry smile. “You may not feel a great deal of gratitude for it, but some pain is a good sign. Now then.” His expression turned neutral, measuring. “Are you able to sit up on your own?”

“I can certainly try,” Volfred responded, and he did, and found it to be easier than expected. He was still weak, and sore, but his body was doing what he asked of it, even if he felt quite dizzy for a moment thereafter. The blankets he had been wrapped in slid down to his waist and he could see that his bare trunk was a patchwork of small strips of bandage. Hardly surprising, given the rough ride down the falls. One particularly bulky bandage was also wrapped around his forearm and, as a bit more of his memory of  _ that _ particular incident returned, he couldn’t conceal a rueful smile. Some reception he’d had. At least the imp had apologized.

Oralech followed his gaze as it lingered over his wounds. “Most of them should heal over with little difficulty. The bite, however… I’ll do what I can, but it will likely leave a mark.”

“If this is the worst I have to show for all of this, then I still consider myself quite fortunate.” Talking more was only exacerbating the hoarse dryness still catching in his throat. He gave a small, pointed cough and eyed the cup Oralech was holding. At last it was offered, and Volfred accepted it gratefully.

“Slowly, now-”

But the words went unheeded as Volfred drained the contents in a few hasty gulps. The water was lukewarm, and stale, and tasted of dust and minerals, but that was hardly important. He wanted more, and turned to ask for it. The expression on his attending physician’s face, however, was evidence enough of how such a request would be received.

Oralech shook his head and took the cup back, setting it to the side. “Don’t hold me to account if your stomach turns later. Now, let me see how you’re healing otherwise.”

Volfred nodded, and Oralech immediately began a battery of simple tests, checking reflexes, inspecting bandages, poking, prodding, and occasionally asking a question or giving a command. It was all over very quickly; he seemed satisfied as he returned to his seat.

“What’s your verdict?” Volfred couldn’t help but ask, with a touch of bitter humor.

“You are healing better than I expected, given your age.” At the look he received for that particular comment, Oralech rushed to elaborate. “It isn’t meant as an insult. Such a journey would be life-threatening even for one with half your years. It is good we found you so soon.”

“And what do you imagine my years to be, physician?”

He gave a thoughtful hum. “I cannot say for certain, of course. But I would wager that you’ve around 250 years, give or take 10.”

Volfred let out a sigh of defeat. “And you’d win that wager.”

“Well then, let us see how well those old limbs are holding up.” Oralech had been smiling a bit (smirking, more accurately), but he returned to his usual severity before Volfred had a chance to get properly offended. “You may dress first, if you like, although you will need to undress again when it is time to change your bandages.”

“I think I can manage that.” The wagon was a comfortable temperature, but one got used to having a little something more between one’s bark and the air, and having his clothes back would help Volfred feel a little more put together. They were practically all he had left, after all. Everything else had been confiscated; probably burned as well.

Oralech simply nodded, and got to his feet. “I shall return soon. Please do not try to move around without me here.” In two short strides he was out the door; Volfred barely caught a glance of the room beyond as light spilled over the threshold, and then was cut off with a quiet wooden  _ thunk _ .

It was a matter of moments before Oralech returned. He lingered by the bedside, seemingly ready to offer assistance, but took the cue quickly enough when Volfred simply extended a hand to receive the robes. He passed them over and retreated a bit for courtesy’s sake; his eyes were averted, but he was clearly still attentive. Hovering, really, although given the situation that was only reasonable.

Dressing was more difficult than anticipated but far from impossible; Volfred’s limbs were just a bit stiff, was all. The wounds across his trunk continued to protest, but not as much as they had before. “Now then,” he said airily, smoothing down a few errant folds of fabric. “What would you have me do, physician?”

Without missing a beat, Oralech moved back to the side of the bed and stood nearby, bracing himself and offering his right shoulder as support. “Try to stand here, next to me. Use my shoulders for balance, and take this as slowly as you need to; you’ve been abed for some time.”

“Duly noted.” As requested, Volfred wrapped an arm around Oralech’s broad shoulders while he lowered himself gingerly down to the floor and slowly tested his balance. The dizzy fog in his head had mostly cleared after sitting up and drinking a bit, but nonetheless it felt a bit odd holding himself up again. Although his earlier activity had not hurt a great deal, now that he was trying to support his own weight, small pains like tiny tongues of flame were beginning to shoot up his roots and scurry across his trunk. He winced, and eased back.

“Steady, now,” Oralech murmured. “If it hurts too much, you can try again later.”

But Volfred shook his head, steeled himself to try again. The pain wasn’t serious, and was less reminiscent of injury than it was of waking up to find one’s roots tangled and grown stiff in an awkward position. Leaning heavily on Oralech, he tried to stand once again, with much better results. His roots were beginning to loosen up, trailing cautiously across the room’s floorboards.

It took far longer to make a circuit of the room than it should have, and he found himself forced to lean on Oralech the entire time, if only a little. But it was a start, and the physician seemed more than satisfied with his progress. Although he already felt physically drained, his mind was racing, as if overexcited at the prospect of being truly clear and active again for the first time in a long while.

So it was that he almost jumped when he heard, “For now, do you have any questions for me?”  _ Too many _ , he thought, taking a long moment to run through all of them. Finally, he looked up, meeting Oralech’s gaze steadily.

“Where am I now? I believe…Tariq, was it? He mentioned a wagon.”

“Yes, this is the common room of a blackwagon,” the doctor answered without hesitation. “It is as much a home as one can have in the Downside. The…climate is not amenable to staying in one place for long.”

“I see.” Volfred had hardly noticed the movement of the wagon, or perhaps it was stopped at present. “We have been traveling, then?”

“Yes, for about two days, while you slept. We journey now to Hollowroot, where there is a small encampment of fellow exiles.”

“How much longer do you think it will take for me to heal?”

A moment of silent estimation. “A week, perhaps.”

“And what will you do with me then?”

The question was not meant as an accusation. But truly, given the whispered reputation of the Downside, it was mysterious enough to Volfred that he had been taken in, shown such hospitality. He knew not what could come next. He knew too little of this place to even guess. Not knowing was not a feeling he enjoyed.

Oralech seemed oblivious to the tension, his eyes slipping shut as he turned the question over in his head. The moment dragged on.

Finally, he spoke, fixing Volfred with his intense hazel gaze. “That conversation would be better had with everyone present, I believe.”

“Everyone? Who else lives here?” He took a moment to sift through his memories. The minstrel, the imp… Had there been others? He felt a crease form in his brow as he struggled to remember faces, voices, but the last two days were an unreal fog.

“There is one other whom you have not met, called Erisa. All of us travel together.”

“I assume I will be able to meet everyone more formally before too long?”

Oralech’s gaze slid over to the door through which he had entered. “You may meet them now, if you wish, and if you are not too tired.”

“Well then,” Volfred said, feeling a ghost of a smile make its way onto his face. “What are we waiting for?”

**************

Oralech was surprised at how little support Sandalwood actually seemed to need as, together, they slowly navigated the stairs down into the blackwagon’s cabin. The wagon’s other inhabitants were, of course, already gathered there, having eaten dinner not too long ago – both the lingering scent of food and the quietly growling pit in Oralech’s stomach reminded him how seriously they had taken his request not to be disturbed unless he was needed. Erisa was entertaining herself by making faces at the imps; Ti’zo chittered his disapproval from his nearby perch, but did little else. Tariq seemed to be doing some sort of maintenance on his lute, turning the pegs and plucking delicately at the strings.

Sandalwood, for his part, peered sharply around the dusty interior, clearly intrigued by the ritual items pushed up against the walls, the faintly gleaming sigil set into the floor. Already he looked like an entirely new sap, now that he wasn’t simply a sodden, feverish patchwork of wounds and bandages. Despite lingering signs of exhaustion, his manner had turned keen, and his bright gaze held an intelligence born of more than mere longevity. He was not a run-of-the-mill exile - but then again, his brand had attested to that as soon as Oralech had laid eyes on it. Whether that worked to their benefit or not remained to be seen.

His gaze lingered questioningly on Erisa; having looked up from her minor torment of the imps, she simply stared back with an undisguised mix of curiosity, suspicion, and a desire to be somewhere else.

Oralech cleared his throat and only her eyes responded, turning the blunt force of her focus onto him. “Could you set out another seat, Erisa?”

“Sure,” she said, then glanced to her left, and back. “Looks like the minstrel already did it, though.”

A look confirmed that he had indeed done so, as swiftly and silently as ever. He had even set his lute aside and now sat quietly, attentive and out of the way. Without waiting for any particular prompting, Sandalwood took the last few steps towards the crudely carved stool on his own, lowered himself onto it carefully, and waited.

Finding himself suddenly the center of attention, Oralech cleared his throat shortly. “You have already met some among us, Sandalwood, but more formal introductions are in order. I am called Oralech. This young woman is Erisa.” Erisa, who had gone back to her intent staring, now raised a heavily callused palm in greeting. Sandalwood nodded back. “I believe you...met Ti’zo, already. And had a conversation, even.” Ti’zo hummed his agreement. “We three together are known as the Nightwings, and this is our blackwagon, and our home.

“I believe you have also met Tariq, the Lone Minstrel.” Tariq tipped his hat in greeting, a gesture which Sandalwood acknowledged with yet another nod. “He travels with us.”

“He  _ accompanies _ us,” Erisa corrected, in a dry monotone that did not at all match the smirk creeping across her face.

“He…” A heavy sigh. “...accompanies us.”

Erisa gave a sharp snort of laughter. Sandalwood seemed to pick up on the pun immediately and, more surprisingly, his answering smile suggested he found it genuinely amusing. While it was almost beyond comprehension how anyone could consider  _ that _ worth a smile, Oralech let himself feel a bit of pride at seeing his patient recovered so.

He cut back in before the conversation could be run further off its path. “If you have anything more you wish to say of yourself, or anything you would ask of us, feel free to do so.”

“Of course.” Sandalwood straightened a bit more in his seat, his bemused expression still lingering. “My name is Volfred Sandalwood. I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality; I’m sure I wouldn’t have survived much longer in the state I was in. It is perhaps difficult to call any experience here good fortune, but it seems as though the Scribes have indeed smiled on me, for now.”

There came an almost inaudible murmur from Erisa, at which Ti’zo gave a chiding screech. But Sandalwood…Volfred, seemed entirely unconcerned with whatever had been said, and continued speaking.

“The four of you, you have been together here for some time?”

Erisa was first to the answer, her tone flat. “Here, yeah. Together, not so much.”

“Each of us has served a different sentence of time in this place, and one of us was born here,” Oralech elaborated, with a nod to Ti’zo. “But we are united now under a common purpose, and have been for some years.”

Volfred took a moment to turn that bit of information over in his head. He had already given the blackwagon a thorough once-over, and he was sharp; he had clearly already put  _ something  _ together, and was simply considering how to word his question. “Your purpose...it is connected to why you travel like this, and why you take a name for yourself?”

Oralech glanced at Erisa, who simply shrugged; at Ti’zo, who gave a cheery series of chirps; at Tariq, who was as impassive as ever. One resounding yes, and two neutral votes. They were leaving it up to him. As crass as he felt it was to think of it in such a way, this was a rare opportunity, and one that would undoubtedly be taken by others if not by them. Who knew when such fortune might befall them again?

“Tell me something, Volfred Sandalwood.” He let the tension hang as he glanced up at the colorful bandage now tied around the sap’s head, glanced back down to hold his gaze. Like a prescient shadow, Tariq was already moving towards the bound volumes stacked in the back of the room.

“Do you know how to read?”

 


End file.
